


By the Book

by thisbluespirit



Category: Original Work
Genre: Books, Demons, F/M, Humor, Librarians, Libraries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 22:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13867722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbluespirit/pseuds/thisbluespirit
Summary: Saleos has never been summoned by accident before. He has also never, in all these millennia, been called upon to help out at Music and Rhyme Time.





	By the Book

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bonster/gifts).



> With many thanks to ClocketPatch and Persiflage for the beta!

It had been an age since Saleos had been summoned, bound tightly to the page by a hundred words of power, awaiting the call of the next foolish mortal who took the risk of waking him. 

To hear the incantation finally being performed again flooded him with dark glee, and he burst free from the book, manifesting at his most dazzling: in perfect male form, and wearing a long but sleeveless robe over trousers, showing off both devilishly intricate embroidery work and tiny jewels stitched in to the silk as well as his inhumanly impressive beauty. People expected something magnificent of a demon, and Saleos liked to give satisfaction.

The poor, overcome human – a female wearing what no doubt passed as respectable but drab clothing for this century – merely gaped at him.

“I am Saleos,” he said, “Great Duke of Hell, here as summoned, and at your command – at your pleasure, my lady.”

She only continued to stare.

Saleos gave a polite cough, as she seemed set to remain overcome. He did not blame her, naturally, but he had been idle for what must have been centuries and was eager to resume the tormenting of souls – first those she wished him to crush, and next hers in more complex and delicious ways. He surveyed the human more closely and was not displeased: not classically beautiful as mortals saw it, perhaps (mortals saw nothing), but with an elegant line to her bones and her soul shone most sturdily – an upright soul and one of influence that would be well worth bending to the services of hell. He emanated a dark aura of pleasure at the thought.

“What is your wish? Why have you summoned me?” He gave his most charming smile. “How may I serve you? Is it wealth, or power, or something else that you desire?”

“But – but – _how_?”

“You read out the incantation. I heard, and responded. Your pronunciation was hesitant, but clear. I could be in no doubt.”

She looked down at the battered old volume in her hands and then up again. She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, dear. Well, this is very awkward. I’m afraid I seemed to have invoked you by accident. If you really are a demon, and this is not some kind of trick.”

Saleos transformed himself into the shape of a magnificent, sharp-toothed crocodile, and then back again to his current heights of manly beauty.

“Good heavens,” said the woman who now commanded him. “In that case, I apologise for doubting you, but it most assuredly was an accident. How does one put you back in the book?”

She had not specifically directed the question to him, so he avoided telling her that the invocation must be repeated, only backwards in every respect. “My lady, it is quite impossible to summon me by accident. The instructions are most exact: at the place between life and death, and at midnight precisely.” He paused. It was, he had to admit, clearly _not_ midnight. Late afternoon sunlight shone in through the window, illuminating a pile of new books wrapped in unfamiliar coverings on a nearby desk. Beside them he saw ink and stamps and small squares of paper with arcane hieroglyphs and letters printed onto them.

She raised one eyebrow again. “Yes,” she said. “I think, perhaps – it must of course be midnight somewhere in the world. I daresay the original creator of the summons thought only of his own country. People always have been very parochial – always will be, I daresay.”

That was a true saying, Saleos recognised, and he nodded. Many times had he been called up by a mortal and tempted them with all the riches and pleasures the world had to offer, and, no, what they wanted was to inflict boils upon their brother-in-law because the bastard had a better mule. Palaces and crowns would not move them. It was extremely tedious. 

“Life and death?” she continued, frowning. “The books? But, no, that hardly seems likely. I suppose there is that graveyard behind us – a non-conformist burial ground, no longer used, but there are still stones and no doubt interments.” Then her face cleared, “And on the other side, we have the Register Office. Life and death, indeed.”

Saleos swallowed. In one moment she would request him to tell her how to be rid of him and he could not bear it. “Are you sure there is nothing you would need me to do for you?”

She hesitated, and he could all but hear her thinking that she could not trust a demon, _but_ …

He leapt upon that ‘but’. “There is! My lady, you have but to command and the thing is done.”

“Well,” she said, “it’s only that I really do need some time to pull together the monthly statistics, not to mention bagging up the week’s cash, and somebody needs to do Music and Rhyme Time.”

“At once,” he said. She was his! “I shall summon up a whole orchestra – whatever you command.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said, and explained.

 

Few things terrified Saleos. He was a great duke of Hell, after all, but he had never in all his millennia been asked to lead a group of parents and toddlers in the singing of inane rhymes. But since he had already agreed, his fate was certain: he would soon experience this horror.

“Although,” said the woman, “you don’t, er, eat children, do you?”

Reluctantly, he admitted that, no, he did not. “I feed off the torment and pain of souls.”

“Oh,” she said in relief. “Oh, well, that’s all right, then. Just don’t forget to include _Miss Polly Had a Dolly_ , make sure you bring out the musical instruments and let things go several minutes over time before you _Wind the Bobbin Up_. I guarantee you at least a small amount of mortal torment before you’re done, especially from Mr Robinson. He detests Music and Rhyme Time but will keep coming in every Friday morning to detest it in person. That won’t hurt anyone, either, will it?”

“No,” he said. “There are only certain circumstances under which I am permitted to fully devour a soul.” His eyes brightened as he rested on her. And those certain circumstances involved a summoning and the ensuing contract. He grinned. Clearly, however, he could not rush to that consummation. This woman would take some time to enthral and corrupt.

She nodded. “I see. Well, that sounds acceptable for the moment. I really was at my wits’ end about the Music and Rhyme Time. I’m Miss Cecil, by the way – Laura Cecil. Now, come on, I’ll teach you the songs – or do you already know them?”

“Nursery rhymes are not my forte, Miss Cecil.”

“And I’d always imagined they were secretly of the devil,” she said, with a grin. “Now, er – is that your real form? Because, if not, I’d appreciate if you could tone it down a little. I’m not sure you won’t make some of the parents faint. We’re not used to such glamorous looks in Whitley.”

Saleos relaxed into something more approaching his natural form: still wickedly handsome, of course, but less deceptively like an angelic warrior, and more fully clothed. “Will this do?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, breathing out in relief. “Much better. Now, follow me.”

 

Miss Cecil continued to give him equally petty tasks: on the following morning he could tidy outside the office where the local councillor was holding her surgery. (More pain and torment of some kind were virtually guaranteed, she assured him. She was right.)

“I could bring you riches undreamt of,” he said in her ear on Monday morning after she had – appallingly – left him locked in the library alone on Sunday, with strict orders not to leave, or if he did, not to hurt anyone. He didn’t need food, and he had plenty of entertainment to hand, so she’d felt he should be able to cope for one day. (He did not read books, he’d said. Not like that.)

“Your enemies’ head on a platter,” he continued. “What do you most desire?”

Miss Cecil surveyed him for a long moment. “I _am_ a librarian,” she said. “I also did a degree in English literature, so I know perfectly well that making that sort of deal with a demon never ends well. Besides, much as I detest some of our borrowers, I can’t think of anything I’d like less than their head on a platter. Now, today, you may sit at the desk and see to the people who are here for the Citizen’s Advice Bureau. Just hand out numbers – it’s very simple. You should be able to make yourself useful and find plenty more human suffering there, while the rest of us can actually get on with running the library for a change.”

“Miss Cecil, I am not here to be _useful_.”

“I thought you said my wish was your command – or something along those lines.”

Saleos stared back at her, aiming for impenetrable dignity. He was, for the first time in a long time, not entirely certain he had achieved it. “Those are not the same things.”

“Ah,” said Miss Cecil, amusement briefly lighting and softening her features, “somehow I thought that might be the case. Now, since you are at my command, will you do as I ask? You may deal with the computer users, too. They are a sure source of annoyance, if not pain. If human wickedness also works for you, Mr Carter’s browser history should be worth a look.”

Saleos went to the desk, and sulked. He also did not like to admit that he was now centuries out of date and unsure about these glowing boxes which contained so much. He eyed the one next to him on the desk with dark misgivings and caused it to short out and fail. He could absorb information and he had very quickly gathered the general purpose of most of the unfamiliar items around him, but the details were unclear – and the glowing box that somehow contained all the things in all the world felt like a rival. He glared at it again and it began smoking. He began to feel much better, especially when the smoke alarms went off, causing chaos. Only petty chaos, but Miss Cecil had been annoyed and the fire rescue service even more so once they had arrived. 

It was mere mischief compared to his usual work, but it made him feel more himself, and later on, he pushed the self-service terminal to follow suit. This, however, was not so successful, as it transpired that it was a rare soul indeed that used the self-service terminal. Saleos could almost pity it. It, too, was out of its rightful place, wherever and whenever that ought to have been.

 

Nevertheless, he must make good this unfortunate chasm in his knowledge and it was not as easy as it had used to be. Perhaps he was getting old, or perhaps it was this world, with everything underpinned by iron and steel; the very lightning tamed. It was never in darkness, not in the town. And more than that, the very belief was no longer there. Most people laughed at the idea of a demon. They did not tremble in fear, as they ought.

He had, to make himself feel better, on the Sunday night manifested himself to two passers-by (barely an inch outside the library, and he hurt no one), but when he roared at them that he was the Mighty and Terrible Saleos, Duke of Hell, they laughed at him. Miss Cecil had also left him with a strict embargo on shape-shifting into anything fierce or terrifying, and while he had contemplated the remaining options, he could not feel any of them would be likely to scare them.

However, there was an answer within easy reach. The library itself would provide him with everything he needed to render himself modern and no longer laughably archaic. And there were, he noted with relief, no illuminations in these books. Some mere illustrations, but nothing to remind him of the horrors of being bound to a book and haunted by the overly imaginative doodles of bored monks. He had one of them to blame for the whole business with the crocodile. For a time, manifesting without the entirely unnecessary creature had brought nothing but disappointment and people asking him if he was a lesser demon trying to impersonate himself. After that, he had obliged with the crocodile. It did, he had grudgingly come to admit, make quite the first impression.

And now he would adapt again, and assimilate the knowledge of this age. He would do so forthwith and with it learn the secrets of Miss Cecil’s soul and how to corrupt her. But, he amended, not too quickly. It would be to the benefit of them both for her temptation to be lengthy and her inevitable fall far off.

 

He spent that night reclining on top of the History shelves. It seemed the natural starting place and, after spending the hours of darkness bathing in tales of injustice, tyranny, atrocities, battles and endless human folly, he felt considerably better.

Although it did make him wonder whether or not human beings had been too good at tormenting themselves in his absence – he thought again of the satisfactory pain and distress he had indeed been able to feed on that day thanks to Miss Cecil’s Citizen’s Advice Bureau and those who had arrived in want of help. It did beg the question of whether or not a demon versed in the more traditional forms of temptation was now redundant, but he preferred to believe that some humans still needed a helping hand in the right direction.

As the sun rose, he decided that on the next night, he would take the IT section and suffer no more such doubts: he would be a thoroughly modern demon ready to wreak havoc through any number of glowing devices made of strange artificial material. (He also resolved to tackle the Technology section. He ought to feel at home in the 600s).

 

The books helped, but they could not prevent Miss Cecil requesting that he also run the holiday craft club.

“Such a relief! I never can get Pauline or Carol to do it,” said Miss Cecil, “and I have to go over this month’s book selection before they decide to take the budget away again.”

Saleos straightened himself and tried not to think about what precisely a ‘craft club’ might entail. “Aha! You _would_ like gold! How much?”

“I think,” Miss Cecil said, becoming wary again and stepping back, although she did look at least a bit wistful for a moment, “that we’ll start with the holiday craft club. I’m sure you’ll get on well with the children, if not the parents.”

 

Overnight, he amused himself by turning all the Classics section into copies of _Shades of Grey_ (he had absorbed multiple copies of _The Bookseller_ on the shelves behind the desk long before he’d started on the books and had gathered that this was a suitably demonic title), but when Miss Cecil arrived in the morning, she did not scream in horror or even shout at him, and she was not in the least bit flustered or titillated. 

She raised an eyebrow and stifled what might have been the smallest amused quirk of her mouth, and then enquired as to whether the transformation was illusory or real, and when he admitted that it was illusory (so went so much of demonic magic), she merely laughed and said that it was just as well he’d chosen the least read section in the library, and looked a little devilish herself at the idea of people taking Dickens home in disguise.

Saleos was disgruntled, but decided to restore matters without comment and resort to no more such tricks for the moment – after all, who knew what other hideously cheerful and educational activities she might order him to run? His blood ran cold at the thought. She had already informed him that Music and Rhyme Time would now be his regular responsibility, as if that word were not anathema to a Duke of Hell. 

At least his powers ran to fixing fictional characters constructed of cardboard when every child inevitably cut the wretched things’ feet off. He hoped Miss Cecil would be pleased with his efforts, but she had been glued to the glowing box in the office for most of the day and, despite his sad sticky, glitter-covered state, merely gave him a vague _well done_ before staring at the screen again, frowning over budget-related calculations he could vaguely sense from the doorway.

He did not feel jealous of the glowing box, of course. He did not. He merely detested it. He was a demon, and it was in his nature to detest things. Like Miss Cecil. He amused himself during the last hours of the day before she left planning exactly how he was going to make her not only unbend, but beg him to please her, and steal his insidious way inside her soul till she could no longer call it her own but his.

He was indeed looking forward to it.

 

He had to admit, though, that _how_ he was going to get to that point was a good question. Miss Cecil had expressed calm aesthetic admiration of his most glamorous form but no extreme ardour. She seemed to treat him as some sort of co-conspirator at times and she was relieved whenever he successfully removed a regular but trying work task from her, but she neither fell into his arms nor gave into the temptation to beg him to summon riches for her. She could not even be persuaded to wish boils upon Mr Frobisher, who came into the library once a week to complain about something. (She’d said she was fairly sure that boils would not improve him.) What was a demon to do?

He had only even begun to anger her after the accidental manifestation of the crocodile during one Music and Rhyme Time, but, as he begged her to consider, it was a natural consequence of leading the toddlers in _Row, Row your boat_ , for if he had to sing the words, “And if you see a crocodile, don’t forget to scream,” he could hardly be responsible for the consequences when he had been so used to manifesting crocodile familiars for centuries.

Besides which, he had added in his defence, some of the children had enjoyed the magic crocodile very much – and the rest had certainly screamed as required by the song. One of the child carers had tried to book him for a party.

Miss Cecil did not, however, no matter how many times he offered, take him up on his offer to make her ruler of the entire world and build her a palace with a golden throne and sixty slaves. In fact, when he’d gone into detail on his proposition, she’d only looked appalled and claimed she had to run home to (she said, incomprehensibly), a cottage pie and _Coronation Street_.

In the meantime, she’d added, why didn’t amuse himself with the agony-and-angst so-called autobiographies in the 300s? He ought to get some sustenance out of those – they were full of human suffering and, in some cases, outright lies for cash.

Saleos’s methods of seduction, temptation and corruption were clearly also out of date. It was intensely frustrating and, for want of anything else to do, he did indeed relieve his feelings by bingeing on said angst and agony, following it up with the nearby true crime and military histories. It gave him the most beautiful nightmares, and he could almost forgive Miss Cecil for overlooking his gloriously evil potential and the indecent sorts of pleasure he could offer her were she only to agree to his suggestions. Almost.

 

The trouble was that Whitley Library did not have the kind of arcane volumes Saleos needed to consult. How his book had come into Miss Cecil’s hands was another unanswered question. She said it had been donated. (They apparently had some very odd donations. Saleos had been one of them.) Even the older books in the stacks in the backroom contained no spells, no incantations or charms, or occult illustrations. The only mystery pertaining to any of them was why someone had thought they were still worth keeping.

It was at that point that he found himself inevitably drawn to the section of the shelves – not so far from the agony, crime and war – that was tantalisingly labelled ‘Self-Help’.

 

The Self-Help books all had different and not necessarily complementary opinions, so much so that he had to pick up each one at a time rather than attempt to sit above and absorb the resulting cacophony of conflicting words. He took in the advice of each and found that his long life and activities had been, until now, highly questionable. His contributions to life had been negative rather than positive. And most of the books generally agreed that his existence as a lone being was the sign of failing in some important way (aside from the few that, in contradiction, celebrated it as a life choice). They all had many, many suggestions on how he might improve himself.

Saleos wondered, though, even as he took the words in and could not avoid the consequences, what would be left of a demon that reformed? 

 

“Out of interest,” said Miss Cecil when they were alone together in the office a few days later, “what _is_ your real form?”

Saleos was not feeling well. He had consumed yet more self-help books with incompatible advice and was suffering from the demonic equivalent of indigestion. He looked down at himself. This was, in his opinion, the nearest he had to a real form. Part of him was not entirely corporeal but such as he was, this was his most common manifestation. He liked it. He turned sulky, suspecting an insult.

“Only,” Miss Cecil said, “I rather imagine it is less human and involves –” she waved a hand – “more tentacles and what have you.”

He became hopeful. “Would you _wish_ me to have tentacles?” He paused, ready to transform at a word. “Some humans find that –”

“No!” said Miss Cecil. She actually went so far as to turn pink for a moment. “I was merely curious. I thought you were, well, translating yourself for me, as it were.”

He realised what she meant – rather like the monks with their insistence on adding the crocodile – and laughed aloud, assuring her of the truth. “After all, Miss Cecil, is it not you who has been at some pains to demonstrate that there are few things so close to the demonic as a human? What other earthly form should I take?”

“Oh,” she said. “A good point, unfortunately.”

Saleos felt encouraged enough to move forward, touching her hand with his. “And as for what I can do with this particular form –”

“Oh, dear, no,” said Miss Cecil, although she did at least have the grace to look a little flushed this time. “Please don’t start tempting me again just now – I’m busy. I’ve got to send these figures to the Head of Libraries before the end of the day.”

“It _is_ my purpose.”

Miss Cecil stared at the book he had stashed in his jacket pocket. “And _How To Succeed at Living and Loving_? What part of your purpose does that serve?”

Saleos attempted looking lofty. “Ah,” he said, emitting what he trusted was an aura of mysterious and arcane knowledge of which she, a mere human, could know nothing, “that you would no doubt not understand.”

“No,” said Miss Cecil, “but then I can’t abide those things anyway. They always make me want to run out and do the opposite of whatever it is they think I should be doing.”

That showed a not entirely virtuous spirit that Saleos approved of, and he also felt considerable fellow feeling for her at the admission, but it was rather discouraging. If the books were not of actual help, then what _were_ they for? More importantly, what could better assist him to seduce Miss Cecil into the ways of darkness and desire?

 

He resorted to the carousel full of Mills & Boon romances that night. What resulted was a definite feeling of queasiness and beyond it some very strange thoughts about what, precisely, he would like to do to Miss Cecil ( _naked, up against the nearest bookshelf, on the desk_ ) and odd questioning of himself ( _but what hope was there for the two of them, him being a demon who existed to feed on the torment of human souls and she the very best, the most attractive of human souls?_ ) and other very strange thoughts, some of them involving pregnant princesses and policewomen. He had no idea where they had come from.

Worse still, he had a feeling that if he tried to pin Miss Cecil up against a bookshelf and kiss her senseless, she would only remember a telephone call she needed to make to a local councillor or force him to help with a school visit. She had threatened that very horror only the previous day. It was enough to make even a Duke of Hell consider his next move very carefully. After all, last week she had made him take minutes for the Friends of the Library monthly meeting, an event of such appalling tedium and petty rivalry that the denizens of the deepest circles of Hell would have been impressed. Saleos gave a shudder at the memory.

He must do something, he decided, and made a list. (The self-help books had all agreed on lists as a Helpful Thing. Well, nearly all of them.)

 

_ A List of Ways I Might Deal with Miss Cecil: _

_1\. Leave this Infernal Place._

_Pros – would solve all current difficulties._

_Cons – is impossible since am bound to Miss Cecil until one of us breaks our contract._

Saleos paused and told himself he was not blushing at the thought of being bound to Miss Cecil. That would also be impossible.

 

_2\. Ravish Miss Cecil against complete collection of the Novels of Mistress Cookson_

_Pros – should prove enjoyable for both of us and bring about the desired intent and –_

He coughed, and did not write anything about a consummation.

_Cons – Miss Cecil may object. She may moreover wreak terrible revenge in consequence._

And also, he thought, having read some more romance novels, would she find it an enjoyable experience? Did she care for him, did she find him attractive? It was a most distracting thing to worry about. He had never done so before, but then Miss Cecil was special, Miss Cecil was –

 _Damnation and curses_ , thought Saleos. The romance novels had most certainly been a mistake. Next he was going to have to tackle the poetry section to find out how to express such feelings and where would that end?

 

_3\. Find a better Book of Advice, perhaps by haunting the returns trolley, for, lo, there are all the very best books._

_Pros – it may contain the secret wisdom of the age and provide a path ahead._

_Cons – if there is such a book, it is no doubt on loan to a human who has absconded with it and will not return to pay their dues, the villain._

 

He fled to the children’s section and slept over the kinder boxes for a rest, but found himself dreaming of lost animals, and items that were, for a variety of reasons, Not His, and important lessons on how to share and live alongside other creatures.

It seemed picture books offered better advice than advice books, although, confusingly, they seemed to relate to animals rather than humans, but he assumed that they were metaphors that, like the crocodile, had got out of hand.

He retreated into the Young Adult section and refreshed himself with angst and dystopic worlds. In between, persistent as these visions had now become when he slept, he saw Miss Cecil in interesting positions in every corner of the library, and howled with distress when he woke.

And yet, mutable incorporeal dark soul that he was, he was changing. As with the infernal crocodile once more, he feared, shaped irrevocably by words and pictures and the imaginations of the mortals.

 

“You asked me if this was my real form,” Saleos said, manifesting in front of Miss Cecil as she tidied away a few last books before going home. They were, happily, the only ones in the building. “I wondered… do you not like it?”

He gestured down at himself: he felt he was comely enough, if not as dazzlingly beautiful as the form he had first tried. Dark-haired, dark-skinned, well-shaped, if a little battered and grizzled at the edges, but he had on a smart suit for the era, he was taller than Miss Cecil (the romance novels had been oddly keen on this as a virtue) and he was not currently accompanied by a crocodile. He had recently been unable to cease manifesting wearing glasses, but he had decided that perhaps it was his age, and he liked them. He felt they provided a distinguished, reliable touch that was perfect for deception. 

“No,” said Miss Cecil, suddenly rather flustered again. “No, there’s nothing wrong with it. And I hope you’ll forgive me for the, er, personal comments about tentacles.”

“If you wished,” said Saleos, “I can oblige with such appendages at any time.” He smiled at her.

Miss Cecil blushed.

“And if you are not in a rush this evening,” Saleos continued in a spirit of what was primarily desperation, “I would be happy to entertain you in any way you choose. Nothing, ah, _contractual_ , as it were. I give you my word.”

“Should I believe the word of a demon?” She was still interestingly red, Saleos was pleased to note.

Saleos hesitated, considering the matter himself. _Hell and damnation, he was being entirely honest_. “If not, what else can I say?”

He had been bound by a few hundred words in a book. Now, he began to see that not only had he been bound again by the speaking of those words in the usual manner, but that he had become captured, perhaps even tamed, by a myriad of words, out of the tens of thousands of books of the library. He had been swallowed by the Library, or he had swallowed the Library and now they were one and the same and both belonged entirely to Miss Cecil (no matter what the Council said). He had been taken down paragraph by paragraph and rhyme by rhyme: spells and stories and incantations all.

“I beg of you, Miss Cecil,” he said, “do not now remember a forgotten appointment or insist that you proceed immediately to Tesco’s.”

She backed up against the nearest bookshelf. “No, well, that all sounds very – the thing is, I believe if it were contractual, that I might have to sacrifice my soul, which I’m not sure I like the sound of – and even if not, if you finished here, who would I get to do Music and Rhyme Time?”

“My dear Miss Cecil,” he said, putting a hand to where his heart should be, were he human, and not a demonic approximation of one. “You wound me to the very core. How may I assure you that I mean you no harm? You have tied me to this place by cunning, by the millions of words contained here also. And even though you are not a pregnant princess, yea, nor even a pregnant policewoman, I believe I am acquainted with pleasures such as the writers of such never yet dreamed of. If you would permit me to show you?”

“Good heavens,” said Miss Cecil, but she quite distinctly did not object. She swallowed and he could hear her heart beating faster than usual.

Saleos grinned. “Quite the reverse, I assure you,” he said, and ravished her up against the gardening section.

 

This was a life such as Saleos had never dreamed of – he could not have done so before he took up residence in the Library. However, since, as far as he could tell, he seemed to be the last active demon anywhere in this vicinity – oh this century of unbelief and iron! – he accepted it. Should trouble come from his sinister superiors, it would be his, some time a few hundred years hence and not Laura Cecil’s. His previously non-existent and now fully literary heart swelled at the thought, and he went to find her, contemplating a new position on the desk, if only she could be persuaded to abandon her paperwork.

However, when he did, he found she was staring at a letter almost as hard as she had stared at him on his first appearance several months ago.

“Whatever is it?” he demanded, full of a desire to sweep to her aid. He would be more than happy to raze whole cities for her if she required it.

Miss Cecil swallowed. “It’s the Council,” she said. “They’re planning to close the library.”

“Then,” said Saleos, “every member of it shall die!”

“No murdering anyone,” said Miss Cecil. “Not even the Council. Besides, it’s probably not altogether their fault.” She explained to Saleos that it was more to do with government budget cuts and, after all, the Council still had to turn the lights on at night, and empty the bins, and so on, but they could spare a library or two if push came to shove – as it so often did. It was not a new tale.

Greedy and corrupt ministers, however, were no stranger to Saleos, Duke of Hell (or his crocodile), and after promising his beloved not to murder anyone, not even the Chancellor, the Prime Minister, or the Minister for Digital, Culture, Media & Sport, he departed to wreak a spot of havoc on her behalf.

Not murdering people left a considerable leeway, Saleos felt and an old, wicked glint flashed in his eyes as he pondered his options.

 

Some months later, the government made a sudden and unexpected U-turn on the matter of funding for museums and libraries. The Secretary of State for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport made a striking speech in their favour. Close observers might have noticed that he was shaking throughout and looking around nervously, but then close observers would have been unsurprised by any shiftiness in a government minister. As Saleos knew well, politicians had always been that way.

And, as for that particularly unpleasant Councillor who had so suddenly resigned, well, Saleos knew nothing about that. The woman had claimed it was for personal reasons and why should anyone doubt the word of a local Councillor?

So, at least, he assured Laura Cecil as he seduced her once again down in the stacks. She did not seem to need much reassuring on the subject, nor, indeed, much seducing.

Whatever the truth of the case, Whitley Library continued to remain open for some time – possibly forever.

**Author's Note:**

> I pinched Saleos's name and his crocodile out of a list of demons from Christian demonology on Wikipedia, but everything else about him is complete invention.


End file.
